Deadline
by praemonitus praemunitus
Summary: An old case is turning Grissom's life upside down. The deadline has been set time is running out both for his relationship with Sara and his own life. GSR.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the CSI characters. Just borrowing them for this story.

**Deadline**

**Prologue**

Sara Sidle chewed on her lower lip anxiously, as she glanced at her wrist watch for what seemed like a hundredth time. _"Great! 7:30. We were supposed to meet here 40 minutes ago." _She let out a deep sigh of frustration, her dark eyes pausing briefly on the half-empty glass of gin and tonic on the table in front of her. Then, as if trying to suppress a sudden need to break something, she made a quick grab for it and downed the clear liquid in one gulp. Pulling out the phone, she dialed the familiar number.

"Grissom," his tired voice came over the phone.

"Oh good, at least I know you're alive," she quipped, unable or unwilling to keep the anger out of her voice.

He winced at the harshness of her tone, forcing his tired brain to work to figure out the reason for her anger, as his free hand reached up almost involuntarily to pinch the bridge of his nose. _The date… they had a date. And he forgot… Damn!_

"Sara, honey, I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I just … I was going over some stuff for tomorrow. … I guess I lost track of time…"

"Right." _Cases always come first. She should have known better than to hope that he would change. _Swallowing down the bitter lump that formed in her throat, she forced herself to sound indifferent: "Well, it's no big deal, really. It's not like I had anything invested in this. It was, after all, _your_ idea to take me out." _It's only a birthday – not like it doesn't happen every year._

She must have said that last part out loud, however, for she heard his sharp intake of breath and a muffled curse that under any other circumstances she would have found amusing coming from him. Right now, however, it only made her cringe with annoyance. _Damn, she should have just kept her mouth shut. Last thing she wanted was his pity._ _Too late._

"God, Sara, your birthday!" he breathed, slamming his palm forcefully against his forehead. "I completely forgot, honey. I'm so … so sorry!"

"It's okay, Grissom, really," she regretted now her decision to call him in the first place. _Should've have just gone home -- to hell with all of this._

"No, no, no," he shook his head violently. "I'll make it up to you. You stay right there. I'm coming over."

She didn't say a word. Her lips twisted in a bitter smile, as she waited for the words she knew were coming. She felt him hesitate on the other end. _Here it comes._

"Um… Sara? You're probably going to hate me for this, but where exactly is it that we were supposed to meet?"

He sounded apologetic, and she sighed, shaking her head dejectedly. _She couldn't deal with this… not anymore._

"Forget it, Grissom," the words came out a bit more harshly perhaps than she had intended, but she was too tired to care. "I don't feel like celebrating today anyway. I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"You're … sure about this? Maybe I can stop by your place a little later?"

She sensed a note of desperation in his voice, but decided to hold firm. "Not today, Griss. I'm going straight to bed when I get home." She paused, listening to the strained silence on the other end. _She knew she probably hurt him with this last one, but a part of her found this thought almost rewarding._ _She needed to finish this … NOW._ "Bye, Grissom," she spoke quickly, cutting the connection before he had a chance to respond.

In another part of town the utterly exhausted night shift supervisor for the Las Vegas Crime Lab let out a heavy sigh, gently replacing the receiver. The migraine that had seemingly begun to ebb away a few hours ago was now coming back with a vengeance, and he rubbed his temples vigorously, as if trying to force it out. _He really screwed this one up, he knew it. He got pulled back into this mess that started 10 years ago. The case was still haunting him, and now … now it seemed like he was thrown right back in the middle of it. And Sara… _

Grissom shook his head, regretting the gesture immediately, as it made the headache grow even stronger. Wincing in pain, he looked at the giant mess of files and folders that engulfed his desk, threatening to spill over onto the floor. His gaze lingered on a small white piece of paper – a letter he found slipped under the door of his townhouse when he came home from his shift earlier in the day; the same letter he was examining when Sara called. The blue eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the already familiar typewritten lines: _"Congratulations, Dr. Grissom. A contract has been taken out on your head. If you call the district attorney and tell him you won't testify on MacCaullen's trial, this contract will be made null and void.. You have until 12 a.m. tomorrow." _That was it. No signature and, he was almost certain, no fingerprints. _Who was behind this? _His hand reached out for the note tentatively but froze halfway to the target and dropped weakly back onto the table. Fatigue and migraine were getting the better of him. Carefully he laid down his aching head, letting it rest on his hand. His eyes closed wearily, and moments later he was asleep.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the CSI characters. Just borrowing them for this story.

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**Chapter 1**

**Several days earlier.**

When his pager went off, Gil Grissom was in the middle of the torturous task of writing one of the numerous weekly reports he, as a shift supervisor, was required to write ever since Conrad Ecklie took over as the lab director. The man, it seemed, thrived on paperwork, and, much to Grissom's chagrin, managed to come up with a new "required" form for him to fill out almost every other day. So to say that Gil welcomed the interruption would have been a serious understatement. Stretching gratefully, he glanced at the display and frowned at the word "URGENT" that was tagged to the end of the message. _That could not be good. _Still, the idea of having a legitimate reason for tearing himself away from filling out the "weeklies" seemed much too tempting to abandon. He sighed in resignation, pushed himself up and walked out the door.

A short time later he was standing outside the office of his long-time friend detective Jim Brass, the same vague sense of apprehension gnawing at him and making him hesitate slightly before raising his hand to knock on the door.

"Come in."

He ventured inside, his feeling of unease growing at an alarming rate upon seeing the sullen expression on his friend's face. _Whatever it was that Jim paged him about, was definitely not good. And this man sitting across from Jim – wasn't that the assistant D.A.? What was going on?_

"You wanted to see me?" he tried to sound nonchalant, as he made his way to Brass's desk.

"Yeah. Sit down, Gil," Brass pointed to a chair and then nodded to their companion: "You remember District Attorney Kraut."

"District Attorney?" Grissom questioned, turning to face the man in question, his brows knit in confusion. "Weren't you the ADA the last time I checked? And what the hell happened to Jessica Mead?"

This barrage of questions didn't seem to faze the younger man. Nodding briefly to Brass, as if telling him _'It's all right, I'll handle it'_, he turned back to Grissom and replied calmly: "I understand your confusion, Dr. Grissom. My _promotion_, if you want to call it that, is very recent and is, for the moment at least, more a force of circumstance than actual career advancement." He shrugged ambiguously and added: "Ms. Mead was forced to step down temporarily."

"Why?"

"Do you remember the MacCaullen case?" It was Brass who spoke, and Grissom could swear that the room itself got a couple of degrees chillier at the mere mention of that name. _Yes, he remembered. How could he not? _The bloody images from a 10-year-old crime scene filled his mind, and he cringed visibly, pushing them away.

He looked back at his friend and was startled to be met with an intent stare of his dark blue eyes. There was something else in that look; something that made Grissom regret his momentary lapse of self-control. Concern. Forcing his lips into a tight smile, he raised his eyebrow in a silent question, inviting the other man to continue.

"He filed another appeal last week."

"So what? He's been doing that for the past 10 years, I would imagine."

"Yes, he has," Brass nodded affirmatively. "But things are different this time."

The eyebrow rose a bit higher. "How so?"

"MacCaullen's old man is dead. Had a heart attack on his way to a business meeting in Dallas," Brass explained, stealing a quick glance at the newly appointed District Attorney. "And there is a good reason to believe that foul play was involved."

Grissom closed his eyes briefly, reflecting over this last statement. "Wait a minute, are you suggesting that Junior was somehow involved in this?"

The detective shrugged noncommittally and began reciting in a calm controlled voice: "Frank MacCaullen dies. Almost immediately after that the old man's best lawyers, who up until that time did not want anything to do with Junior, rush over to jail, force out the flimsy court appointed attorney and start claiming that Jesse MacCaullen's trial was done hastily, the evidence was tampered with, and that not only should Mr. MacCaullen not be on a death row – he should not even be in jail." Hearing Grissom snort, he allowed himself a tiny smile and continued, "Two days ago there was a break-in in the evidence room – an obvious inside job. Nothing was touched except for one single file."

"MacCaullen's," Grissom supplied darkly. He was beginning to get a very bad feeling about this.

Brass nodded.

"That's not all," added Kraut, his expression sour. "Since the evidence in this case was compromised, our office sent out summons to some of the witnesses who testified at the original trial, asking them to come to the appeal hearing. They all declined. I talked to some of them personally; they are scared to death."

"And Jessica?" Grissom asked, already having a pretty good idea of the answer.

The former ADA sighed heavily, the fingers of his left hand playing absently with his tie. "She received a note a few days back: drop the case or else." He paused for emphasis, his voice turning slightly apologetic. "She has a kid now, you know. She didn't want the risk. Understandable." He coughed uneasily and spread his hands: "That's how I got the job."

Kraut paused again, waiting for some kind of a response, but none came, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking at Brass for support. The latter nodded curtly in approval, his mouth tightening into a thin line of worry.

"Bottom line, Dr. Grissom," the former ADA cleared his throat unnecessarily before continuing, "we got us contaminated evidence, no witnesses, the original DA who handled this case is out of the picture. You're the one who handled the original evidence; you can provide the expert testimony." His voice turned almost pleading, "And you're all we got left."

The room fell silent; the implication of things said hanging oppressively in the air.

Gil Grissom shook his head in bewilderment. A thought suddenly crossed his mind that he would have been better off working on filing Ecklie's paperwork, and he almost smiled at the irony. _Yes, this was definitely much much worse._

"Look, I know this case was hard on you," Brass began after the moment of silence became too drawn out, "and there is a good amount of risk involved in going against this guy now…"

Gil interrupted him with a wave of his hand. "It doesn't matter, does it?" he said tiredly. "Doesn't sound like you, people, have any other alternatives."

"No, we don't," Brass affirmed grudgingly, lowering his head. _He hated putting his friend through this again, especially now, given the risk factor, but it was much riskier still to chance having a madman like Jesse MacCaullen roam free. He knew it, Gil knew it. There was no other way._

"MacCaullen probably found an accomplice," Gil's voice interrupted his thoughts, and Brass looked up, cringing inwardly at the marked pallor of his friend's face. _Damn this!_

"We were thinking that too," he responded. "Must be someone who cares a great deal about getting Junior out of jail. We already have people combing through his personal correspondence to see if there might be any clues there as to his identity. You can get your guys on board to help you comb through the rest of the stuff."

"Could be a she," Grissom interjected thoughtfully, "the accomplice, I mean," and, without waiting for Brass's answer, he shook his head and added quietly, "and, no, I don't want my people anywhere near this case." He clenched his teeth briefly, a muscle in his jaw tightening under pressure. When he spoke again, his voice sounded dull even to his own ears: "It's too dangerous and too ..." _sickening, he wanted to say, but thought better of it_, "They don't need to be involved," he repeated. "I can handle it myself."

Brass pursed his lips, disappointed but hardly surprised. "It's your choice," he acknowledged. "And you're right about the accomplice. Could be a female admirer of our Mr. MacCaullen," he added with a wry smile. "Anyhow, whoever this person is, they have exceptionally good connections and means. If they can get to someone like MacCaullen senior ..." he let the sentence hang. _The implication was clear enough. Jesse MacCaullen found himself a possible way of getting out of jail, and it seems he'll stop at nothing to do it._

TBC

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Thank you for reading. Please review


	3. Chapter2

Here is the next chapter. It's a bit longer than the other 2, but I hope you like it. Thanks a lot for all your reviews. Keep them coming :)

Disclaimer: The only characters that belong to me are the ones I invented for this story.

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**Chapter 2.**

**Present day.**

The following day Grissom came to work with full intention of apologizing to Sara for the botched birthday celebration, yet to his chagrin he found the task to be an impossible one. He couldn't even so much as start a conversation with her, because every time he tried to get her alone, she'd duck out under some excuse or other, and he could do nothing but grind his teeth in frustration. He tried leaving it alone for a while and focusing on the cases, or, rather, _the_ case, and he spent several hours locked in his office, reviewing the evidence for Jesse MacCaullen's appeal hearing, but his mind kept drawing him back to the last conversation he had with Sara, the hurt and anger in her voice, the finality of her goodbye…. _It was impossible to concentrate._ He sighed in defeat and pushed the folders away. _He really needed to talk to her._ _"Well," _he thought, _"if the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain."_ Having made his decision, he got up stiffly and walked determinedly out the door. Seeing Sara round the corner, he waited until she came nearer and stepped toward her, effectively blocking her path.

"I need to see you in my office. Please." He caught her lightly by the wrist, as if afraid that she might still find a way to slip by him.

Flinching inwardly, she nodded and stepped inside, closing her eyes briefly, as she heard him close the door behind her.

He was silent for a while, frowning at the sight of her stiff back, and when she finally turned around to face him, he was completely taken aback by the coldness in her normally warm brown eyes, and his frown deepened, his eyes darkening slightly in apprehension.

Their silence stretched, making him feel uncomfortable, and he decided to break it first, doing his best to ignore the sudden knot that began to twist his gut.

"I thought we needed to talk … about last night," he ventured, his head cocked slightly to one side in a gesture that seemed inquiring and submissive at the same time.

"What's there left to talk about?" she shrugged and continued in the same dull emotionless tone of voice one uses for reading aloud the results of some lab analysis: "You offered to take me out for my birthday. Then something came up – a case, I assume, – and, instead of calling me to let me know, you jumped right into it and forgot all about me. Not just that – you forgot that we even had a date in the first place, and the reason we had it, and where it was that you yourself invited me to." She paused, making him squirm under her hard stare. "Does that about sum it up?"

This recitation floored him, leaving his mind blank and his mouth gaping; any arguments he could have brought into this conversation – gone out the window. _She was hurt, he realized that. But something in her voice, in the way she spoke made that unpleasant feeling in his gut grow ever stronger. _

"Sara, I…"

"No need to explain, Grissom," she put up her hand tiredly, silencing him. _She couldn't stay angry at him. She realized that yesterday still, as she drove her half-drunken self home. No, she wasn't angry, but…_

"I'm not mad at you," she continued, and a look of genuine surprise mixed with relief flickered across her supervisor's face. But the feeling of relief was short-lived, evaporated at her next words: "I simply can't do this anymore … us." She made a vague gesture with her right hand. "Your job is always going to come first. I'm always going to be a distant second. That's a fact." She gave him a sad smile. "It's not your fault, really. You love your job. You ARE your job. And I always knew that. I just convinced myself that I wouldn't be bothered by that." She shrugged helplessly and lowered her head, her words coming so soft that Grissom had to strain to hear. "But I realized something last night, as I was sitting in that bar alone. …I realized that I was wrong -- that being second just isn't enough for me anymore." She fell silent again, keeping her eyes glued to the tips of her shoes, not daring to meet the burning stare of his blues.

For a full minute all Gil Grissom could do was stare at her in stunned silence. He opened his mouth halfway through her tirade, but no words would come. He was completely dumbfounded. All he understood was that she was ready to end things between them, and that it was all his fault. _This can't be happening. This _shouldn't_ be happening. This was just a one time thing, one mistake. Wasn't it? …Or was it? "Oh, come on, Gil, you know better than that. How many times have you placed your job ahead of her before, huh?" _his inner voice reminded him cruelly, and a painful realization that he _did_ mess things up and messed them up much worse than he had even imagined sent him reeling.

"Sara…," he began once more, but his throat felt dry as sandpaper, and his voice broke into a coughing fit. "You were never second, Sara," he continued quietly, once he was able to speak again. "I may not have shown it very well at times, I admit, but... I -- I wasn't going to skip out on your birthday, I swear. But I got this no-- ...new lead on a case I'm working on and... I just got carried away, I—" he stopped short, suddenly at a loss for words, and made a desperate gesture with his hand. "I never meant to hurt you," he added finally, letting the sentence hang in the air.

"What case?" she questioned, her brows knit in suspicion.

"What?"

"The case you're supposedly working on. What is it?"

Grissom's face darkened. "It's ... an old case … something I'm handling on my own," he said vaguely, cringing at the flash of anger he saw in her eyes at this response.

She threw up her hands in annoyance. "Typical. You wouldn't even let me in an inch more than you feel necessary. I have to fight constantly for the right to get inside your _'inner circle'_. Well I'm done fighting!"

She made a move for the door, but Grissom stepped in her way. "Sara, wait."

"For what, Griss?" she snapped, making him flinch involuntarily. "For you to get your head out your…" she stopped short of an open insult, the expression in her eyes filling in the rest of the phrase. "You can't have it both ways. You can't string me along, claiming that you love me, and cut me off cold turkey when you feel it interferes with your job." She pursed her lips with an almost childly hurt expression that cut him to the quick. "When you figure out what it is that you need, you let me know," she said quietly and shook her head, "I'm too tired to play this game with you anymore".

With that Sara walked slowly toward the door. He reached for her, but she recoiled from his outstretched hand, and he let it drop limply back to his side.

He opened his mouth to speak – a last futile attempt to stop her from leaving – but his effort was interrupted by a soft knock on the door, and seconds later it was flung open, revealing a somewhat disheveled and perturbed detective Brass.

"Gil, I wanted to—," he cut himself short, realizing that he wasn't alone and noticing the somber expressions on the faces of the two CSIs. "Am I interrupting?" he asked cautiously.

"_Yes,"_ Grissom was about to shout out, but Sara beat him to it. "No, Jim, you're fine," she said much more calmly than she felt, "I was just leaving."

Grissom looked helplessly at her retreating back and then turned angrily to his guest: "Look, Jim, I have to take care of something. Can this wait?"

Brass regarded him silently for a moment and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Gil, but this is important. I got a call from the D.A. a few hours ago. The man was freaking out. Said someone called him, told him that he might as well forget about going to the appeal hearing, 'cause he's got no one left to testify for him. He asked me if I knew anything about that." The detective looked at his friend searchingly. "Anything I _should_ know, Gil?"

The CSI grimaced as if he'd just bit off a piece of an exceptionally sour lemon. "The note," he mumbled. _Sure, whoever called Kraut must have been the same person who had sent him this ultimatum. Probably figured he'd do the "sensible" thing and back off. _

"The note?" Brass asked, uncomprehending.

"I … got a note last night. Same kind Jessica Mead got, I presume." Grissom shrugged. "They must have figured they'd get the same response from me that they got from her. A little premature, don't you think?" he smiled ruefully.

"Last night? Why am I only hearing about this now?!" the detective exclaimed, his voice tight with worry. "Damn it, Gil! I thought we had a deal: you get any threats, you let me know right away. What the hell happened?"

Grissom nodded apologetically. "I'm sorry, man. I really am." _Damn, he was doing a lot of apologizing lately._ "Look, it's no big deal. A standard ultimatum. No prints -- I checked. They were just trying to rattle my cage; get me to back out like they did with Jessica."

Brass held up his hand. "_I'll _decide whether it is a big deal or not. Geez, Gil," he shook his head in disbelief, "we are talking about a threat to your life here. Don't you even care?"

Gil rubbed his forehead wearily. "Look, the note is in the top folder on my desk. You can take a look for yourself. I need to go talk to Sara. When I get back, you are welcome to chew my head off. All right?" And not waiting for a response, he swiftly walked out the door.

Jim Brass shook his head in disapproval, as he watched his friend leave. _"Stubborn fool,"_ he thought sullenly, making his way to his friend's desk. He opened the folder, his eyes scanning the contents of the note in question, his lips pursed in concentration. _It was your average run-of-the-mill ultimatum, as Grissom had said. Very similar to the one the former DA received. The only difference here was that in Jessica Mead's case, she backed out almost as soon as she got the note. Whereas in Grissom's case, a lot of time has already gone by. "The time!" _The blue eyes narrowed on the last sentence: _"12 a.m."_. He glanced at the clock on the desk in front of him, and his face grew suddenly very pale. And with a sharp "Damn it!" he ran out the door in search of his friend. The current time was 1:15 a.m.

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"Have you seen Sara?" Grissom has been asking the same question of everyone he ran into on his way. This time it was directed to the wide eyed receptionist, who shrank back from the nearly breathless CSI supervisor that sprinted down the hallway only to lean heavily against her desk. 

"I … um… I saw her a couple of minutes ago, sir," she mumbled shakily. "I … think she went out."

"Thank you, Judy. You've been a big help," he breathed out and ran for the door.

He was late. By no more than half a minute, but still irreversibly late. By the time he ran out into the dimly lit parking lot, all he saw were the red taillights of her car, pulling out into the street, out and away from him.

He stood bewildered between two rows of cars in the oppressive darkness of the a warm Vegas night, and suddenly he felt so lost, so utterly, completely lost that, for the first time since very early childhood he had an overwhelming urge to cry. He fought it _hard_, biting on his lower lip. _Sara was gone, but he needed to believe that there was still something he could do or say to get her back. He had to believe it._

A lone shadow separated from the wall of the building and began gliding slowly toward him, moving carefully to avoid the few lit areas of the parking lot.

Lost in thoughts, Grissom was oblivious to any presence behind him.

"Dr. Grissom?"

A stranger's voice startled him, and he turned, genuinely surprised to find himself face to face with a man whose predatory narrow features reminded him of a hungry wolf.

"Can I help you?" he asked, frowning at the stranger.

The latter smiled, baring a row of small sharp teeth, and his resemblance to the gray predator grew even stronger. "As a matter of fact, you're just the person I've been looking for."

Gil never saw the stranger's hand jerk forward in a rapid jabbing motion, but he was suddenly aware of a sharp, tearing pain in his abdomen. He gasped in pain and surprise, his right hand clutching at his attacker's shoulder, trying to push him away.

The latter did pull back, pulling the weapon out with him, and the momentum of his movement caused Grissom to stagger forward. His attacker grabbed him by the collar, preventing him from falling to the ground just yet, and, straightening him out the best he could, he pulled his other hand back once more. And this time Grissom clearly saw the soft light of the lamppost dance gruesomely on the sharp blade as it flew toward him for a second strike.

"Goodbye, Dr. Grissom," the stranger let go of his shirt, and, having lost his only support, Gil Grissom fell heavily to his knees, his hands clutching weakly at his torn stomach, as blood began flowing freely between his shaking fingers.

TBC

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Cliffhanger, I know. Sorry about that.

Please review


	4. Chapter 3

**Well, I'm back after a REALLY long time. **

**Thank you so very much everyone for your reviews and your comments. You, guys, have been great!**

**And now, on with Chapter 3 (where, once again, I do not own any of the CSI characters)**

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Chapter 3.

"_Stupid. God, how stupid!"_ _That was just what he needed – to die in the middle of a parking lot, with a building full of people some ten feet away._ He could picture them finding his body later in the morning when night shift gets ready to go home. _Who will it be? Warrick? Nick? How pathetic would it look – their own supervisor dying on the street because he was too weak to get up and get help_. _"Suits you right. Next time you'll be paying better attention to your surroundings. … If there is a next time…" __And Sara… He never got a chance to tell her... to explain. _"Stupid!" this time the word escaped his lips in a muffled groan, as his hand reached out blindly, groping for the side of a nearby car. _He wasn't just going to lie here and quietly wait for death. He was going to get help if that was the last thing he did. Now if he could just pull himself up. That was all he needed. "Just to get up. Just to get up. Get up. Get up. Up." _Clenching his teeth, he jerked himself up, regretting the move immediately, as violent pain ripped through his body, and the world swam around him with nauseating intensity. He closed his eyes and hung on for dear life, waiting for pain and nausea to subside. His fingers, digging into the polished surface of the car, turned white with exertion. He may have screamed – he wasn't sure. When he opened his eyes again and looked at the building, his intended target suddenly seemed so much farther away than before that he almost cried in despair. A part of him (a rather big part, actually) wanted nothing more than to drop back down on the ground and let his torn weary body rest itself into oblivion. _But he couldn't. No, he couldn't. He had to get there... he had to try._

Forcing his wobbly legs to move, he reluctantly let go of the car and pushed himself forward.

* * *

Jim Brass flew out into the street after several frustrating minutes of unsuccessful search inside the building. Unbeknownst to him, he had traveled the same route that his friend did earlier in search of Sara Sidle, with a final stop at the desk of the already nervous and restless secretary.

"Gil!" he shouted, looking wildly from side to side. "Gi-il! Gi-" he cut himself short, noticing a dark figure that stumbled drunkenly in his direction. "Gil," he breathed out in relief, as he ran toward him. A lamppost near the building's entrance welcomed the staggering CSI into its pale circle of light, and Brass froze momentarily, his eyes riveted to a large dark spot staining the front of Grissom's shirt.

His friend stopped as well and raised his head slightly (a gesture that visibly cost him a lot of effort), squinting at the detective.  
"Some… mess, …huh?" he whispered, his lips twisting in a crooked semblance of a smile. "…Guess … you can … say… told … you… so." He swayed dangerously, and Brass was moved into action, reaching out to catch him. And it was just in time too, for Grissom's feet refused to support him any longer, and he sagged heavily into his friend's arms, grateful for the much needed respite after his brief yet arduous journey across the parking lot.

Brass lowered him gently to the ground, dropping to his knees beside him, as he felt around the blood-soaked shirt for the source of all that blood. Finding what felt like the right spot, he pressed down on it gently, eliciting a muffled groan of pain from Grissom. "I'm sorry, buddy," Brass cringed. "It's all gonna be okay. Don't worry. I got you. You just stay with me. You hear? Stay with me. Stay with me," Jim whispered in his ear over and over, using his free hand to dig his cell phone out of his pocket. "I need a medic! Parking lot outside the forensics lab. NOW!" he barked into the phone as soon as the connection was made. Satisfied that his message was received, he flipped the phone closed, turning his attention back to his friend.

The CSI lay frighteningly still; the ashen color of his skin, further punctuated by the pale light surrounding them, gave him the appearance of a corpse. Frantically, Brass reached out and grabbed his friend's wrist, fighting down a wave of fear, as his trembling fingers felt around awkwardly for any sign of life. "Don't do this to me, Gilbert. Don't you dare!" Finding a weak pulse, he exhaled sharply, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"That's better," he whispered and frowned, noticing for the first time the nervous shaking of his hands. "I'm too old for this crap," he added to no one in particular.

* * *

The loud wailing of sirens broke through the thick fog that seemed to wrap itself around his conscious mind like a warm, stifling blanket. Grissom forced his eyes to open, reluctantly letting go of the blissful warmth, and found himself staring up at the worried face of his friend.

"Hey, good to have you back," the detective whispered to him, a genuine smile lighting up the man's features. "The ambulance is here," he added unnecessarily, "They're gonna take care of you. You're gonna be fine."

Gil lowered his eyelids briefly, showing that he understood. _There was something he needed to say... Something important. Before it was too late... Before they took him away... before they put an oxygen mask on him... before he d-..._

He opened his mouth to speak and suddenly found himself gasping for air, as a series of violent coughs ripped through his already ravaged body. For several minutes all he was aware of was pain – merciless and blinding. He did not see the panic in Jim's eyes, did not feel someone's hands lifting him gently off the ground and onto a gurney. He only suddenly realized that he was no longer struggling for breath, and he opened his eyes once more to find himself already in the ambulance. Jim was still right there next to him, and there was an oxygen mask pushing air into his lungs. _Wait a minute, a mask? No, not yet!_ He struggled, trying to raise his hands to remove the obstruction from his mouth, but his hands just lay there limply, refusing to cooperate. Cursing himself mentally, he moved his head slightly to the side, hoping to catch his friend's eye, hoping that he would understand what he needed.

And Brass understood. Seconds later the mask was gently lifted, and he sighed in relief.

"What did you need, buddy?"

_Now was his chance. _More carefully this time, mindful of his earlier experience, and yet with a sense of urgency of a man who could already feel himself beginning to slip away, he ventured forth:

"Sara…. Tell… S-sara… sorry... I... h-hurt... her…. Didn't… mean… to," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper, "Please…". This sheer act of speaking seemed to have drained from him whatever energy that was left. _He was tired,… so tired…_ _Sleep. That's what he needed right now. Sleep. "What was it that Shakespeare's Hamlet said? 'To sleep… perchance to dream…' Yes, that's it. Just close your eyes and sleep._ Vaguely he heard his friend say something to him, but he could no longer make out the words. The warm and sticky shroud of oblivion beckoned him to return, and he let it take him, welcoming the peaceful nothingness of its embrace.

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**TBC**

**Please keep those reviews coming.**


	5. Chapter 4

**Hi, everyone. I apologize for the long silence. Big, huge thank you to everyone who reviewed my story! You, guys, have been great!**

**I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint all Sara fans. I was a little mean to her here, but I promise to rectify that in the next chapter :)**

**Disclaimer: As always, the CSI characters do not belong to me.**

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Chapter 4.

"For the last time… I DON'T KNOW why Grissom would go running after Sara," Warrick Brown threw up his hands in frustration, making the young detective questioning him take an involuntary step backward. "I told you I was in a different part of the building. I barely saw either of them. What part of that did you not understand?"

The detective smiled tightly, trying to regain some of the authority that he seemed to have lost due to the other man's outburst. "Mr. Brown," he began, I understand that you are upset, but--"

"Upset?" Warrick interrupted, taking an almost menacing step toward the younger man. Anger was starting to boil to the surface, and he cared little if his current behavior was bordering on assaulting an officer of the law. "I just find out that my friend has been stabbed outside this very building, but, instead of letting me go to the hospital, you keep asking me those stupid questions that I told you I couldn't answer!" He paused, fixing the officer with a most scathing glare. "Was it your brilliant deductive reasoning that led you to believe that I'm upset?"

"Sir, I really think that-"

"What is going on here?" a new voice broke into their conversation, and both men turned to find Catherine Willows standing in the doorway, a box of empty test-tubes clutched firmly in her hands.

"Warrick?" she prodded after getting no response from either of them.

Warrick hesitated a moment longer before finally blurting out: "Grissom's been stabbed."

The box clattered to the floor, shattering the glass tubes inside. "What?"

"Ma'am," the detective finally found his tongue, "may I ask who you are?"

"How bad?" Catherine was looking directly at Warrick, ignoring the detective's question.

The CSI shook his head. "That **character** says he doesn't know anything," he nodded at the detective, "and he won't let me go to the hospital until he's fully satisfied that a phrase 'I was in a different part of the building' really means I was IN A DIFFERENT F-ING PART OF THE BUILDING!"

"Sir, I am **just** trying to do my job…", the detective's voice went a notch colder.

"Not if your job includes solving this crime, you're not!" Warrick snapped back, looking as if he were ready to strike the younger man.

"RICK!" Catherine's desperate cry brought the argument to an abrupt halt.

Warrick whipped back around to face her, the flaming green eyes meeting her worried blue ones. "Cath…, I'm sorry, I…"

She cut him off, for the first time directing her question to the detective: "Which hospital is he in?"

"Desert Palms," the man responded grudgingly.

She nodded. "Let's go, Rick."

The detective made one last attempt, as the two CSIs went past him. "Ma'am, I must insist that you let me finish my investigation, else I will be forced to charge you with obstruction."

Catherine halted her steps, giving the man a look that almost made him wish he were standing at least a couple feet away. "CSI Brown and I are going to the hospital now to check on our friend. If you wish to question us further, you'll be able to find us there. End of discussion. If you want to charge me, go ahead, but if you so much as think about stopping us now, you will regret ever setting foot in this building."

"I forgot how scary you can be when you get mad," Warrick whispered to her, as they rushed past the dumbfounded detective toward the door.

"Comes in handy sometimes," she retorted.

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Jim Brass was pacing up and down the hospital hallway like a caged tiger, ready to pounce on any scrubs-clothed two-legged creature that would come into view. The moment the ambulance got to the hospital, he's been rudely shoved aside and told to wait. All attempts on his part to obtain any kind of update on Grissom's condition were met with a mildly annoyed yet pronouncedly polite request to "be patient and let the doctors do their job". He's been waiting for what seemed like an eternity, and his patience was slowly wearing thin.

A familiar voice called to him from the end of the hallway, and he looked up to see two disheveled CSIs sprinting toward him from the nurse's station.

"H-how is he?" Catherine breathed out raggedly, as the two of them skidded to a halt next to the detective.

Brass merely shook his head. "I haven't been able to find out anything since I got here. They-" He stopped short, seeing Catherine's drift away from his face, her eyes widening in horror. He followed her stare downward, for the first time becoming aware of the blood that covered his clothes and hands. A violent shudder went through his body, and he had to fight a sudden urge to run to the restroom to scrub everything away.

"Geez, is that all Gris's…?" Warrick's voice carried to him, concerned.

He nodded slowly, as if drugged. "He crashed once… on the way here," Brass managed, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. "They've had him in surgery now for hours... I... I don't know…," he trailed off, staring at his blood-covered trembling hands.

Catherine drew in a shaky breath, trying to calm her nerves. "Why don't you sit down," she offered, gently placing her hand on the detective's shoulder. "Why don't we **all** sit down."

Brass let her lead him toward a nearby bench and plopped down heavily, as if all the energy from before has suddenly drained from his body.

"Where are the others?" he asked quietly, when the two CSIs sat down on either side of him.

"Nick and Greg have a 419 in the desert," Warrick supplied. "I called them a few minutes ago. They'll come as soon as they're done."

"Oh, God, Sara" Brass remembered suddenly. "I promised Gil I'd call her." He reached into his pocket for his cell phone and tried, unsuccessfully, dialing her number. His shaking fingers refused to cooperate.

Catherine reached over, covering his hands with hers. "It's all right, Jim. Let me."

Jim surrendered the phone to her, an apologetic smile touching his lips.

She dialed the number, mentally steeling herself for a conversation that lay ahead.

Sara picked up on the fourth ring. "Sidle."

"Sara, hi. It's Catherine."

"Hi," Sara responded tiredly. "What's going on?"

"It's uh...," Catherine hesitated, "it's about Grissom..." She heard an angry snort on the other end, and stopped in confusion.

"Figures," a note of contempt creeping into Sara's voice. "He refuses to talk to me, but he is **more** than happy to talk to you."

Taken aback by her tone of voice and comment, Catherine was momentarily at a loss for words. "Sara, wait… that's not..."

"No," the other woman cut her off. "I'm sick and tired of this dance! I-"

"Sara, shut the hell up!" Catherine's sharp cry made those sitting next to her flinch involuntarily. "I was calling to tell you that Grissom is in the hospital. He was stabbed. If you can get over yourself for a few minutes and want to see how he is, you can come to Desert Palms. See you then," and with that she hung up the phone, not giving the other woman a chance to respond.

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**TBC**

**Please review (please, please, please)**


	6. Chapter 5

**Well, I'm back with another chapter. As promised, Sara gets a much better treatment in this chapter. And the team finally find out about the MacCaullen case.**

**Hope you enjoy this installment. You, guys, have been great with reviews this far. Please keep them coming!**

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Sara Sidle placed the phone down and stared at it unblinking, a horrified expression on her face. All of her previous feelings of hurt, despair, even anger evaporated with one short simple sentence: _"Grissom was stabbed." _All of that was replaced by bone-chilling gut-wrenching fear. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest, and the sound of her heartbeat reverberated in her ears with a deafening roar. _Stabbed. Hospital. She needed to go to the hospital. _She tried to get up, but her feet, which have suddenly turned into useless lead weights, refused to cooperate, and she had to grab a hold of a table in front of her with both hands to force herself to stay upright. "Come on, Sidle, get it together," she whispered almost breathlessly.

She pushed herself forward, hobbling toward the door like a wounded foal. Moments later she was racing toward the hospital, trying her best not to think about what she'd find once she gets there.

* * *

_They were all there_, Sara noted to herself, as she walked out of the elevator. _The entire nightshift. _They appeared to be talking when she walked in, but the conversation died as soon as the chime of the elevator door announced her arrival. They turned, looking at her expectantly, and she shrunk back almost instinctively under the scrutiny of their stares. Biting her lip nervously, she stepped closer to the group, searching their faces for any indication of what the conversation was about.

Catherine, who was eyeing her with marked displeasure, softened her gaze upon seeing the look of abject fear on her face, and she motioned for her to sit down next to her.

"He's still in surgery," she said quietly, responding to the unspoken question in Sara's eyes.

Sara nodded, nervously twisting the strap of her purse with her fingers. "H-how… how did this happen?"

"We're not sure," it was Warrick who responded. "There's a cop back at the lab, questioning everybody. And he seems to think that you're somehow involved."

Sara looked up in shock, hoping to see some indication in her friend's face that what he just said was a joke. But she found no trace of humor in the green eyes that met hers with a searching gaze of their own.

"I d- … I don't understand," she breathed out finally, looking desperately from one face to another for some kind of explanation.

"Apparently, Judy saw Grissom run out to the parking lot a few minutes after you did," Catherine explained. "And, since none of you came back...," she let the sentence hang, watching, as the younger woman clasped her hand over her mouth in horror, the realization of what happened hitting her full force.

"Oh god...," Sara felt as if someone had suddenly cut off her oxygen supply. _It was all her fault. All of it. If she had waited for him to catch up with her... If she had given him a chance to explain... _The stream of self-castigating "what ifs" was brought to a halt by a light touch on her hand. _Catherine was trying to get her attention. What did she need? "Focus, damn it!"_

"Did you see anyone else on the parking lot?"

Sara shook her head in despair. "I was so focused on myself, on being angry with him… I … I didn't even bother to look."

The other CSIs exchanged quick glances at her unexpected confession. _Angry? Over what?_

"I could've prevented this," she accused almost breathlessly. "I…"

"You couldn't have done anything," a tired voice interjected, "none of you could." Jim Brass leaned forward slightly, aware that everyone's attention was now on him. He was debating with himself for the past few minutes whether or not he should tell them what was really going on. He understood Grissom's reasons for keeping this case away from them, but now… after what happened... _Did it really make sense for him to continue to keep silent? Did he have a right to keep them in the dark?_

He decided that it was time to come clean. _And if Gil were to chew his head off for this afterwards, so be it – Hell, he'll even welcome the yelling if it would mean that his friend would get through this okay._

He reached into his breast pocket and took out the hastily folded note. "Here," he said, handing it over to the CSIs.

Nick was the one who grabbed it, his brow furrowing in confusion, as he began reading out loud: "Congratulations, Dr. Grissom. A contract has been taken out on your head. If you call the district attorney and tell him you won't testify on MacCaullen's trial, this contract will be made null and void. You have until 12 a.m. tomorrow." Nick looked up from the paper, a feeling of unease creeping into his heart. "What the hell is this, Jim?"

"Un ultimatum," Brass stated with an almost eerie calm in his voice, the blue eyes shifting their piercing gaze from one concerned face to the next.

The CSIs were silent, waiting for him to continue, knowing somehow that whatever it was that Jim was about to tell them was not going to be good.

Brass hesitated a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Have any of you heard of the Jesse MacCaullen case?" he asked finally.

"Was that the guy who raped and murdered something like fourteen women?" Nick tried.

"Fifteen," Brass nodded in confirmation. "Gil and I worked this case. It took us over five months to narrow down the suspect, and the bastard got bolder with each passing day. Murders became more frequent, and victims started showing signs of torture... horrible torture." Brass stopped, shaking his head, as images from those crime scenes came rushing back. "We were so focused on catching this guy… we haven't slept in days. For Grissom, I think, it became almost an obsession" he sighed. "Needless to say, we were extremely relieved when that creep was in custody. We felt like the nightmare was finally over." Brass fell silent, lost in the memories.

"What happened?" Warrick prodded, when silence began to stretch too long.

"The rich and powerful father happened," Brass smiled bitterly. "Frank MacCaullen sent his best lawyers, and Jesse was free on bail within hours." His lips twitched with barely controlled anger. "Gil snapped then. Grabbed the case file and drove over to MacCaullen's residence."

"Alone?" Catherine asked, incredulous.

Brass gave a short mirthless laugh. "Yes, believe it or not. MacCaullen senior told me afterwards that, and I quote, 'this crazy CSI lunatic' pushed past his armed guards, burst into his room and dropped the entire folder on the desk in front of him. Apparently, Gil nearly chewed the guy's head off, yelling at him, shoving photos from the crime scenes in his face…"

Greg whistled in astonishment. "No way. Griss told off the crime lord?"

"Damn, my respect for the boss-man grows with every minute," Warrick chimed in.

Brass smiled. "Yes, well, he nearly got his head blown off for that, **but** MacCaullen senior was impressed. He told Grissom that he'll have his son back in custody by morning. Junior had other plans, however…." Jim paused again, his eyes darkening. _The events that took place next were something that both he and Gil had to live with for the past 10 years, and if he still had nightmares about it, he could only imagine what Grissom must have been going through day after day. _He looked up, seeing the eager stares of his friends. _Now **they** were going to get thrown in this mess._ He sighed ruefully. _"Here we go."_

"When Gil returned home from his shift that day Jesse MacCaullen was waiting for him outside his house," Brass began quietly, lowering his head, as he felt the tension emanate from the group of people surrounding him. "He knocked him out, dragged him to his car and drove him over to his hiding place. He... uh... he tied him to a chair, waited for him to wake up, and then told him that he'd heard what Gil told his father about him, about him being a monster and all. The **psycho** told him that he thought it was **premature** for Gil to label him a monster based merely on a bunch of lousy pictures, so, **out of the goodness of his heart,** he decided to provide Gil with a live demonstration...," he paused, taking a deep breath before continuing on in a jumble of clipped, disjointed phrases. "The… uh… woman was already there. He... he must have gotten her before Griss... He made him watch as he..." He cut himself short, closing his eyes briefly, as if in pain. "We found them almost a day later... Frank MacCaullen was actually the one... he pointed us... in the right direction. ... When we got there... they... she... the woman was ... dead... And Gil... God, I think he wished he was--," Jim stopped abruptly, unable to go on under the flood of memories that assaulted his mind. _He was back in that cursed place. MacCaullen's latest victim was lying on the cold basement floor in a pool of her own blood. And his friend sat in a chair across from her, unmoving, looking before him with wide unblinking eyes that were filled with pure horror. He didn't move when Jim ran up to him, didn't flinch when they removed the rope that was cutting into his wrists. He continued to sit and stare into space. Only when Jim put his hand on Grissom's shoulder and prodded him gently, "Come on, Gil. Let's get out of here," did his friend finally seem to become aware of his presence. He blinked once, lifting his gaze toward Jim and then his face crumpled and he dropped his head back down into his arms, and Jim stood there stunned, watching helplessly, as violent sobs racked his friend's body. _

He felt a soft touch on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes _(he didn't even realize that they were closed)_, realizing with dismay that his own cheeks were streaked with tears. He wiped the tears away, smiling apologetically, as he looked at his silent audience. His friends looked grim, some -- even crushed. Sara, too, had tears in her eyes; Catherine looked pale as a ghost; Greg was nervously biting his lip; while Nick and Warrick stood with their fists balled up, looking like they were ready to punch someone.

"So now MacCaullen is trying to get out of jail?" Greg asked finally, after a long silence.

Brass nodded, telling them about the sudden death of MacCaullen senior, the compromised evidence, and the threats to the witnesses and the former DA.

"Grissom was the last witness left," Nick stated hoarsely, receiving another nod of confirmation from the detective.

"I still don't understand why Griss didn't want us to be involved in this," Warrick cut in suddenly. "We could have helped out… we could have maybe even prevented all of this from happening."

Brass heaved out a deep sigh. "You remember Holly Gribbs?" he asked, ignoring their surprised looks at the mention of that name. "Well, she wasn't the first CSI that Grissom and I lost."

"You mean… one of MacCaullen's victims...?"

"The last one," Brass stated grimly, eliciting a faint gasp from Sara. "The bastard wanted to mess with Gil's head, and he did his homework. Ellen..." he chocked on the woman's name, feeling the lump back in his throat, and closed his eyes again briefly to collect himself, "Ellen was three months pregnant…. This was going to be her last case... She and her husband were going to move to her parents in Virginia to raise the baby…. She was going to quit earlier, but she was a damn good specialist, and Gil convinced her to stay a bit longer... He never forgave himself…."

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**TBC**

**What do you think? Please review!**


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